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Wednesday, 20 November 2019 17:58

The Boy with the Buttons at the Bus-stop

I was huddled at the bus stop, partially sheltered from the South-Easter’s icy fingers, as it fiddled at the crevice of my coat and pinched my cheeks playfully. Ominous clouds hung overhead, heavily pregnant with rain, an imminent birth soon to be unburdened from the heavens.


He appeared as if from nowhere, his expression as innocent as his clothes were threadbare. Dirty blue jeans, scuffed sneakers and a cotton sweater with the buttons done up wrong were his body’s only defence against the elements.

Published in Creative Writing